Scientific Method
by Team Jane
Summary: Have you ever wanted to be a fly on Alan Ball's wall? Here is a sneak peek as Ball brainstorms ideas for the Season 4 Episode 9 and Episode 10. SPOILERS! Watch the episodes first. Drug References and language.
1. Acid Trip

**Story- Scientific Method**

**Summary: If you have not watched True Blood on Sunday, August 21st****, go and watch it and come back. This is an in-depth look into the mind of Alan Ball and the Scientific Method he used to create that episode. **

**Thanks for LadyHlin for enduring my fucked up brain and looking at this, whatever this is, for me!**

**Warnings: This, whatever it is, contains adult themes, drug references, hallucinations, and disturbing thoughts and language. **

**The disclaimer is at the end because I didn't want to clue you in to the many people, places, and things that might find this offensive.**

**Chapter 1- Acid Trip**

Alan Ball stared at the television watching his favorite program _Whose Line is it Anyway_, and pondered the direction of season four. Sitting on his couch he candidly gazed about the room searching for inspiration.

He had gathered his most compelling resources, setting them all out in front of him for inspection. The most important ingredient for capturing the most emotionally stimulating storylines included LSD. Ball was a busy man and preferred his method of choice in paper form so that it could easily be slipped under the tongue for instant dissolvable effects.

"Damn, if only 'V' was really," he mused with a frustrated sigh as the paper melted under his tongue.

The psychedelic level that needed to be achieved for the most powerful storyline had to go beyond a level three. Last week Ball partook of a milder dose which only provoked the disorientation of himself to determine the direction of the characters for a limited span of time. This level awakened a life changing experience for the onscreen couple and their blood exchange morphed into mild hallucinations, sending the main characters into a fantasy world surrounded by a winter wonderland and a very large bed, fit only for a Viking. They seemed to lose themselves in time and space as they sought their pleasure, seeming to never tire or freeze from the inclement weather around them. Any other real person would have frozen their asses off, but in the psychedelic land of an acid trip, they neither felt the cold nor surrendered to it as they made their own fire beneath the sheets.

No this week Ball thought he needed to outdo himself and generate a much higher level of incompetence. Level three was not nearly enough to create such a state, level four must be achieved.

As he slipped another square-like paper into his mouth, he briefly wondered if they could be stored in a _Listerine Strip Pack_ container as he sat back and waited for the journey that the mind-expanding drug would surely take him on; definitely the ride of his life.

Relaxing into the sofa he scrutinized the variety of things in the room. Several he passed over discarding any ideas that didn't pop into his semi-conscious brain immediately.

He could already feel the power tingling inside his mind as his hearing sharpened, making every uttered sound more distinct than the next, and his vision transformed into a swirling array of brilliant colors.

_It was time_, he thought. Inspiration came in many forms, but his favorite lied in the hands of the magnificent Drew Carey and his '_scenes from a hat'_. Oh yes, Ball had watched _Whose Line _for years and saw the brilliance behind the idea and had his underlings cuts out words from fanmail received from the show, placing the words in a magical hat.

Drew Carey knew his shit. On one particular great day that Ball had strung himself out, not even able to go to work, he watched his idol on television. Carey was spinning a magical wheel that shimmered with death defying colors, creating a loud pinging noise as it spun. _This is genius_, Ball thought as his next idea played out in his mind. But, don't ever tell Ball that Carey wasn't behind the intellectually stimulating wheel that spilled out cash because he might just take some of the fan choice words and screw up the show even more.

Preparing himself he lifted his swaying arm to the wheel and spun the dial. His head whirled around and around in time with the wheel as it moved, picking its next hapless victim to torture. The wheel ticked with each person it passed, choosing its next prey. Finally, it slowed and landed on Jessica.

"Jessica it is," Ball stated as he picked up the black patent leather top hat. Shaking the hat, swirling its contents he withdrew a word. _Chainsaw_.

He had to think about that long and hard because the rainbow that filtered into his consciousness was not giving him any indication of a direction. Carey, the God among men, shouted directly from the television, _"Sex," _clearly dictating the direction to take.

"Now with who," Ball wondered as he spun the wheel of insight for answers. The wheel clicked to a stop on Tommy, and just as Ball was about to place Jessica with a chainsaw in the drawing room on top of Tommy, the wheel clicked one more time, landing on Jason.

"Hum, Jason. Now _where_?"

_Where _was the question, but as with all great brainstorming activities Ball had a prepared method to determine _where _things happened. Leaning over to his side table he had the _Memory Game _that he so altered in card form, scratching out the pictures and replacing them with places from the show, just for this task. Each upside-down card labeled every place in his psychotomimetic world, so the situations that the characters found themselves in did not come about by chance, but had an actual scientific method that Ball formulated for his use.

Closing his eyes, he relaxed his mind, allowing it to float as the powers the drug gave him moved his hand, just like the mystical powers of a Ouija board. His fingers landed on a card and he gradually flipped it into his view. The magical word appeared with a shimmering light as it danced around the single word; _truck_.

_So Jessica was with Jason in a truck while they had sex next to a chainsaw. Perfect_, he thought congratulating himself on accomplishing such a feat, no doubt his best work of the season.

With a vote of confidence, clearing applauding himself for the exceedingly magnificence of his mind, he spun the wheel again, pondering over his next ill-fated victim, er, storyline.

The ticking of the wheel spun to a sluggish pace, finally landing on Alcide.

"Hum, interesting," Ball thought as the name 'Alcide' spontaneously morphed into a heart-like shape, taunting him with firmly rounded edges.

"Alcide's ass? What's that got to do with this episode? Oh, _Magic Eight Ball_ don't fail me now." Next to him on the couch sat the most mystical medium of all. What would a unicorn be without its horn? What would a rainbow be without all its colors? What would Alan Ball be without his _Magic Eight Ball_? He would be shit!

"Oh, glorious _Magic Eight Ball_, I beg you to guide me in my quest for greatness; guide me in my creation of the most nonpareil show to ever exist." Ball clutched the _Magic Ball _like it was water that fed his very parched soul; kissing it he shook it with all his might. The _Magic Eight Ball _just might hold the key.

"Will Alcide fuck this week?" he asked the black ball.

"Definitely not," it answered, without even a bit of sway.

"Will he get naked this week?" Ball asked shaking it again with all his might because he so desired to see the hunky wolf baring all. He appreciated his muscular frame and soft curves, rounding out his backside with that smooth juicy bottom that enticed him to want to sink his teeth into that swell.

"Yes," the _Magic Eight Ball _whispered breathily. Alan wept with joyous tears as the _Eight Ball _almost sang that sweet word to him.

So, Alcide was destined to parade around naked without giving into his sexual desires.

The ambiguity was not lost on Ball and he knew that he needed to consult another source to get the answers that he required. There was more to Alcide's story than a dangle parade.

Spinning the enchanted wheel, Ball waited for the next name. The lights were getting brighter and things seemed to be clearer as a plethora of rainbows surrounded the wheel and Marcus' name projected forward, jumping out at Ball. _This is significant_, he thought, knowing that this man would be important in the coming weeks.

Roving his eyes they set their sights on the next tool, the stupendous magical hat. Ball drew the word 'fuck up' from the hat.

_Fuck up_, he repeated over and over, wondering why his staff would put such a phrase into the hat. Then, it came to him; he needed another name. Spinning the wheel round and round his head moved in anticipation for his answer, but it appeared that the wheel could not decide. The dial stopped exactly on the black line between Tommy and Sam.

Scratching his head he pulled his hand away, watching the movement of his fingers, and if he moved them really fast, they blended together with a multitude of pretty colors. _Level four_, he thought, clearly proud of what he had achieved, because he believed that his best work came about the deeper the influence. Now for the hard part, he knew the _who _and the _what_, but hadn't come up with the _where_.

His _Memory Cards _had never failed him in the past, and he moved his hands over the tiles, whispering words of profound wisdom. He lowered his hand and turned over the card; M_otorcycle Shop_.

He had four people in the scene and someone was about to get fucked, but who? Ball decided that since the cards already came to that climatic decision, they all would. Sam would finally get fucked; Tommy would get fucked up; Alcide would find himself fucked; and Marcus was just a fuck. He smiled proudly to himself as he rearranged his notes for the show.

"What character can I fuck up next?" Ball questioned allowed, still high from his latest challenge that he had solved.

He spun the enlightening wheel and as it crawled to its end, it stopped on Hoyt.

"What could I possibly do with Hoyt?" Ball wondered as he pondered one of the great mysteries of life.

"He lost his pants!" Carey laughed heartily, taunting Ball to _try _to write _that _into the script.

"Oh, yeah Carey, I'll show you, watch me," Ball turned to his cards and shouted, "Where!" The room swirled with the force of a hurricane and all the cards left the table in a turbulent fury as the stirred around the room in a violent storm. One card settled onto his lap face up; _outside_. The seas calmed and the cards floated back down to earth, settling on their rightful place, on the table face down.

Ball was mesmerized by the events, knowing that only powers like those, like the ones he found in his own possession could lead the world to greatness.

He reached for his hat, to further his insight, creating an even more disturbing diabolical plan. The phrase he pulled out read- _lost cause_.

It never even occurred to Ball of the type of fanmail that he received for such words to even be placed amount his mystical possessions. Pondering the happiness of the audience was not one of his concerns, but following the spirits that led him, so as to not anger them was top priority.

Working his thoughts out loud he concluded, "Hoyt's plight is a lost cause anyway, so wandering outside without pants would be beneficial for him. But how naked is he?" He decided that a question like that could only be determined by the uncanny powers of the _Eight Ball_.

"Will we see Hoyt's pecker?" Ball asked without much delight. If the powers told him, he would, but he had no desire to see Hoyt's pecker because something so small would be such a disappointment after the might Viking, the big bad wolf, the vampire King, and even his best fairy friend. He hand no _love _for Hoyt, but he also could not bear for his show to be reduced to such measures.

Peering with one eye, he sought his answer, "Definitely not!"

He breathed a trembling sigh of relief, knowing that he nearly got by that obstacle without being unscathed.

Finally he came to his greatest challenge of the night. What the hell was he going to do with cookie, er, Sookie? It seemed like everyone wanted to take a bite out of her. He decided to take another lesson from the hat. Whirling the contents he spun the papers like a torrent tornado, determined to find the right answer. Reaching his hand in, his fingers claimed an answer; _'stop the show'_ was written on the paper.

_Stop what show_, Ball thought, giving his mind a chance to twist over that new idea.

Feeling like he didn't quite have a grasp on what the powers-that-be were trying to tell him, he reached in the hat again, hoping for a more vivid direction. The next words, _bat-shit crazy_, gave way to more colorful hallucinations as he imagined Bill flying in, swooping Sookie up on his batwings and carrying her to safety. Ball briefly wondered if he remembered any of his editors mentioning if Charlaine Harris created the vampires with wings, but then disregarded the idea. Once the contracts were signed and all the book rights were transferred, any evidence of said content was burned for the sake of creative liberty.

Drew Carey shouted from the television, "_Stunt double_."

All these words were bombarding Ball's brain, but none of them fused together forming any ideas. He concluded that another dip in the hat was what he needed. Shuffling the papers, mixing them up, he pulled out; _slut_.

The power of the 'S' filled him as he looked over his working list: stop the show, bat-shit crazy, stunt double, slut and they all surrounded the biggest 'S' of all, Sookie Stackhouse. The 'S' sound slithered like a snake hunting its prey through his mind, lurking in every dark corner for the answers. His mind flipped through mental pictures very fast like a view finder, trying to sequence an order to all the mystery.

He knew the _what_, but needed more information to find out the _who _and _where_. Spinning the wheel, he decided to coin it the _wheel of fortune _because it alone foreshadowed future events. As the enchanted wheel pulsed to its end, the pointer made another unprecedented decision. It stopped directly on the black line, smack in the middle of Eric and Bill.

"A Sookie sandwich," he thought devilishly, loving Oreos the most because the best part was the savory chocolate that melted in his mouth before he came to a creamy release. The chocolate toyed with his senses in the height of rough foreplay, but the cream was what inspired his luscious pinnacle into a complete state of oblivion.

He concluded that he needed to consort the _Magic Eight Ball _for the most complicated answer of the night.

"_Magic Eight Ball_, send your wisdom onto me. Will Cookie find herself sandwiched between Eric and Bill toying with fire in a ménage a¢ trois?" Ball wanted this because it was a chance to see the mighty Swede and the Southern gent sans clothes participating in hanky-panky of their own. Hopefully the jewels that dangled beneath would be a sight for Ball's eyes alone to behold. But did the _Magic Ball _agree?

"Not this time," the ball coaxed as it relayed another ambiguous answer, causing Ball to pout his disapproval.

"So there's a chance for next week," he wickedly smiled filled with hope, determined to push the power of the magic because it had _definitely not _defied him for eternity.

Now it was up to the _where_; _where _should this almost night of passion take place?

"Daylight, daylight," Carey yelled at Ryan Styles through the medium of the all-knowing tube.

"Daylight!" Ball scoffed, "but Carey, they'd burn." He bantered back to Carey, but his only response was a lift of his hands in an 'I don't know' gesture.

"Daylight….daylight…daylight," Ball mumbled, wondering how he could make a charred grilled cheese sandwich erotic; it certainly was no where near the creamy sweetness of the Oreo that he so desired.

He hoped the cards would give him better insight as he closed his eyes, his body swaying along with his hands to pick the magical answer. Smacking his hands down on the table, he squinted with one eye, almost afraid of the outcome; _dream_.

"Dream," Ball repeated in his own dreamy like daze. "Dream!" he shouted with more enthusiasm, chanting the word over and over. Standing up he twirled around, knowing that his true intent would not be lost on the show. He _would _see Eric and Bill bare all.

The room started whirling, like he was caught up in the Disney's _Sword and the Stone_, as the furniture began to dance, twirling themselves higher in the air. His mop sauntered towards him with a sway of her pole, wrapped completely in his red night shirt, but letting the front fall open giving him a glimpse of what lay beneath. It nudged him flirtatiously, whipping her rope-like hair, letting it fall in a sexy frame around her head. She shimmied her form, letting the red, lacy garment slowly move down her sides.

"She looks anorexic!" Carey shouted with a snorted laugh. The foggy haze lifted as every moving object in the room was broken by the spell of his voice and dropped idling to the floor.

Ball shouted with trembling fear at Carey, "Master, I pledge my fealty to you and would never intentionally defy your command. Let me know of your wishes."

"I already told you," Carey reaffirmed, making eye contact behind the tube.

Ball replayed the facts of the scene. He had a least three characters involved: Bill, Sookie and Eric. Both brawny men were long, lean and lusted after the anorexic telepath who played with fire, dancing in a racy negligee while she had the best sex hair ever on the show. The enchanted hat encouraged him to 'stop the show' before it got too far because he hadn't yet hired a stunt double for Sookie who was definitely not going to turn into a cookie. Her obnoxiously protruding hipbones and ribcage made her look more like she belonged in a hospital instead of being able to satisfy two very hungry horny vampire men. It was totally bat-shit crazy that the scene would ever be allowed during the day, but the problem was solved as it was only a dream.

Now the question that lay heavily on Ball's mind was, who the fuck was he ever going to get to stand in for Cookie when the Swede refused to wear a sock?

***Raises hand* "Alan, I'm right here and will have no trouble with Alex sans sock." **

**Disclaimer: I do not own any part of TB and I humbly (not really) apologize to Alan Ball, but I needed comic relief. And if I've offended Disney, Hasbro, Drew Carey, Nabisco, Libman Mops, Ryan Styles, **_**Whose Line is it Anyway**_**, **_**Wheel of Fortune**_**, or **_**The Price Is Right**_** I really do apologize because that was not my intent. Oh, and I don't own any of those products, companies or shows. Damn, that was a long list. **

**A/N: I may try to do this again and if anyone has any other ideas on where Ball gets his ideas from, feel free to pass it along. I may use it if I decide to create another segment. **

**I could have gone on forever, but I'm sure next week will have a whole other set of problems that the **_**Magic Eight Ball **_**needs to solve.**

**If you laughed pleased review. I do what to hear what you think of my twisted mind. *Grins***


	2. Rehab

**DO NOT read unless you have seen Episode 10 of Season 4; the episode that aired Sunday the 28****th**** of August.**

**This episode was halfway decent, so I thought it was appropriate to send Ball to rehab, but I'm pretty sure he'll fall off the wagon sooner or later. **

**Chapter 2- Rehab**

**The perfect song for this chapter is Amy Winehouse's **_**Rehab**_**. I thought I'd get you in the mood by typing a few lyrics, but it would be best to play that song from youtube. com or hum it in your head as you read this.**

_They tried to make me go to rehab,_

_I said, "no, no, no."_

_Yes, I been black,_

_But when I come back, you'll know, know, know._

_I ain't got the time,_

_And if my daddy thinks I'm fine._

_He's tries to make me go to rehab,_

_I won't go, go, go._

The day after the Episode 9 aired the team of creative writers shoved the reviews into Ball's not-so-awaiting hands. Ball took the papers along with his Tall Mocha Latte and sluggishly slithered into his corner office.

"Too many goddamn windows," he murmured, shielding his eyes with his hand from the rays of the sun. Pressing a button on his desk, the shades lowered, giving Ball a minor reprieve from the heady hangover he sported.

"Damn reviews; why should I fucking care what they have to say?" he stated to himself as he slammed the newspapers down onto his desk and plopped himself forcefully into his leather wingback chair.

He scanned the words, not really reading because he fucking didn't care, but a single phrase caught his attention; _this feels like little more than shipper pandering_.

"Shipper pandering," Ball repeated, clearly confused on the accurate connotation.

Ball flicked on his computer and as he waited for it to warm up, he perused the other articles. The critics painted his brilliance in a horrific light. Phrases like _'close to giving me a cavity' _and a _'cop-out to end all cop-outs'_ filled the pages of the paper. Ball was in disbelief of the ignorance of the viewing population; _did they not know extraordinary even when it slapped them in the bloody face_?

Finally his homepage booted up and he clicked on one of his bookmarked sites; _Dictionary. com_.

He keyed in the word _pandering _and waited as the computer took a minute to process. The definitions were:

_A person who furnishes clients for prostitute or supplies persons for illicit sexual intercourse; procurer; pimp_

_A person who caters to or profits from the weaknesses or vices of others._

_A go-between in amorous intrigues. _

Ball looked at the definitions and was even more baffled as to why that particular author found those words to be offensive.

_Was not Bill a procurer and instructed to do what was necessary? Did not the vampires profit from Sookie's vice? Was Cookie not a go-between as she sandwiched herself between two hungry vampires for an amorous intrigue? _

All these questions swirled in Ball's fucked up mind as he couldn't understand the negative essence of the statement, so instead he took the meaning as a complement and sat there, in his leather chair, with a satisfied smile, drinking his Mocha Latte.

A knock sounded at the door.

"What?" Ball yelled as the pounding taunted him like a driving hammer intent on securing a nail into a piece of wood.

The door opened slowly and a few guys on the staff walked in; for the life of him he couldn't remember any of their names as the foggy haze still had not totally lifted from his mind.

"Alan, we have some concerns?"

_We_, he thought as he looked over the blurry images before him.

Clearing his throat one of them said, "We feel you've lost your…mojo. It may have something to do with the amount of…_aids _you take."

_Surely they could not be referring to my Listerine Strips._

"What are you saying gentlemen? Get to the point; I'm a busy man," Ball snapped, as he randomly ran his fingers over the keyboard to imply that he was actually working.

"We feel…that you need an intervention. If you want to maintain your status on the show you have to seek treatment. The staff has enrolled you in the _Promises Treatment Center _in Malibu."

Ball remained calm at their declaration because the one thing he did know was that if he lost his temper they'd be shipping him off faster than it took Cookie to suck out a bullet.

Ball played it cool, "Gentlemen, I believe there has been a mistake. I'm sure we can work something out."

As the three, possible six men shook their heads vigorously Ball had to clutch his desk so he wouldn't fall over. Their bodies blended together into one, and then would separate into different factions, spreading out around the room as if he were surrounded. His head felt like it was about to explode and the fight in him went out, as he passed out, landing on the floor.

He woke up in a room all of his own and he guessed from his surroundings that he was at _Promises_. "Promises, promises," he grumbled as a sexy nurse walked into the room.

"Am I allowed to say Mr. Ball that I think True Blood is de-vine. You are the greatest man to ever walk this Earth." the nurse gushed as he flailed his hands in wild gestures, reminding him of the flamboyant Lafayette.

"Please, call me Alan, and you are?" he asked with a wink.

"I am Mark, and don't worry your pretty little head; we'll get you out of here in no time."

Ball thought to himself, _I'm betting on it_.

Forty-eight hours later Ball had completed his accelerated twelve-step program and even received his first sobriety pin; the first step to a long recovery he was told. He never thought he'd miss his bed as much as he did and when he woke up that first morning after rehab, he felt like a changed man.

Alan Ball had a purpose, a vision on where he wanted to take _True Blood_, but for the life of him he couldn't fucking remember it. _It must have been all the acid_, he thought as he went about his morning routine. It was now Sunday, having lost so many days because of the _unnecessary _intervention.

Alan Ball was a very superstitious man and refused to break his morning rituals. On Sunday, because Monday was the day he met with the creative directing team, he would glean ideas from the everyday ordinary people by fraternizing among them.

_Literary genius results is tough shit_, he thought as he sipped a cup of coffee trying to dispel the hammering that invaded his mind; withdrawals he was told would plague him for some time. _Do they think I can pull such greatness out of my ass?_

With moments like these, only having a few mere hours before he had to pitch his ideas to the team, Ball actually checked his ass to see if it held the key to the answers he sought.

"Damnit, nothing!" he cursed silently to himself.

So Sunday was an important day since his ass wasn't up to the challenge of continuing the storyline that he so readily fucked up.

He left his house inconspicuously trying to avoid the paparazzi, disguised with a ball cap and sunglasses as he took off in his cherry red Porsche with a license plate that said '_dreamer'_.

Ball was a dreamer and frequented said dreams into the show. _Reality bites without a bit of fantasy_, he thought to himself.

The first stop of his morning, which was early afternoon by the time he got his ass out of bed, was to pick up the morning paper. The paper set the tone for the day, not the actual paper, but the fortune that governed the inside of the pages. Ball left nothing up to chance in his life and knew that fate really could move the world. So his first act every Sunday morning was to consult the esteemed words of wisdom that could only be found in his horoscope as he ate lunch at his favorite restaurant; _Moon Goddess_.

_Moon Goddess _was essentially a Chinese restaurant ran by a New Age woman that was as painted up as a Geisha. Ling escorted Ball to his usual table with his paper securely tucked under his arm. Ball believed that everything was fated and as he sat down he noticed the new Chinese Zodiac placemats. Immediately, without even giving Ling a second glance, he scoured the animals looking for his match. The year 1957, his birth year, meant that he was a Rooster.

"I love cocks!" he said out loud, snorting at his poorly played humor. He breezed through the qualities of a Rooster and liked what he saw; Roosters had a very keen 'sixth-sense'; they were multitalented and excellent trouble shooters; and, though sharp, practical, and resourceful, the Rooster loved to dream.

He sat back in his chair filled with awe; every quality that labeled the Rooster fit him perfectly like a custom made glove. He jotted down his cock-like qualities in a little notebook that he carried for such things.

As he waited for his food he opened to his horoscope to seek his daily dose of wisdom. Scanning down he reached his life's direction.

_Life will be filled with unsavory battles, fighting with massive weapons, but one battle that cannot be fought lies within the heart. _

"What the hell does that mean?" he asked no one in particular, but praying that the powers-that-be would send him a sign.

"Mr. Ball, can I please get a picture with you?" a young man asked bringing him out of his internal struggle.

"Sure," he stated without enthusiasm, not intending on getting up, but Ling had other ideas.

"Mr. Ball I take picture by Tiki torch. Get up!" Ling demanded in her broken English.

Ball reluctantly followed the adoring fan and the painted Geisha over to two Tiki torches. He didn't want to know why the torches were inside a New Age Chinese restaurant.

"Hold torch!" Ling commanded, but as Ball placed his hand on the torch, he received another reprimand from Ling. "No, like this," she said, demonstrating as she pulled the torch from the floor and held it out on an angle to him. Ball took the torch and the fan stood beside him as they posed for the picture.

Ball's eyes drifted to the wooden make of the torch and as his eyes trailed even further down, he discovered the sharp pointy end.

"Can I have your autograph, Sir?" the fan asked, extending to him a very sharp, very wooden number two pencil.

…_fighting with weapons of mass destruction…._

His fingers curled around the weapon, er pencil as he examined the pointy end, deciding if the splinters would be enough to kill a vampire.

"Sir?" the young man questioned as Ball examined the pencil like it was a foreign object, something which he had never seen.

Ball shook himself and said, "Who should I address this too?"

"Can you write: Terry, Shoot me a line next time you're in the clubhouse?"

It sounded like an obscure request to Ball, but he indulged the youth, not thinking much of the inscription at the time. The young man walked away with a skip in his step and a smile on his face.

Ball returned to his seat and ate his meal. Ling brought over his favorite part of indulging in the Chinese culture; the fortune cookies. They might not seem that significant to some, but Ball practically worshiped the advice they contained.

He offered up a silent petition to the powers-that-be, hoping that he'd receive guidance on what to do about Cookie's lack of sexual competence and the Festival of Tolerance. He kissed the curved-like fortune and broke it.

_The Light at the end of the day will be what saves them all._

Ball taped that fortune into his notebook and pondered over the meaning of the light. _Sookie, when she's trying to not be Cookie, has the power of the Light_, he thought.

…_fighting with many weapons of mass destruction…._

The pencil, the Tiki torch and the Light were many weapons indeed, but what of the outcome?

Ball cracked open his next medium for knowledge.

_Men without souls do not cry._

"What the fuck?" he said a bit too loud.

"Mr. Ball, keep dirty language to self!" Ling scolded with her finger wagging in his face. Ball sheepishly apologized to the Moon Goddess.

He had one last cookie, and before he opened it, though not a religious man, he made the sign of the cross, figuring that he'd even accept help from Jesus. He kissed the cookie one last time and then broke it.

_Those who interfere will vanish into thin air._

This time Ball thought, _what the fuck_, clearly terrified of the frightening Ling in all her painted glory. He had almost made up his mind to go home, and look for his box of Listerine Strips that held the magical LSD, until his sobriety pin fell out of his wallet.

_I will not fall off the wagon_, he thought, _at least not so soon!_

With a sigh, he paid his bill and meandered down the street looking for inspiration.

He thought over the logistics; he had not found a stunt double for Cookie because many women feared the wandering snake, not covered by the damn sock. He tried to talk to the Swede, but apparently he felt more comfortable au naturale. Not that Ball was arguing because he also felt a bit more happy seeing Alex dangling free. No, the solution clearly was to find a creamier double-stuffed Oreo, but who?

As Ball traveled down the street he stumbled upon a used book and video store. _What better way to gain knowledge_, he thought.

The children's section was in the front of the store and as he was about to push on to the adult section, a series of books caught his attention; _The Magic Tree House_.

A light bulb flickered to life in Ball's mind. What was it that boy had asked him to write? Something about Terry shooting at a clubhouse?

Ball picked up one of the _Tree House _books and skimmed the back; apparently Jack and Annie solved all the problems of the world inside a magical tree house.

"Who is having problems?" Ball asked himself. "Who isn't, is the better question?" He decided to write down these ideas in his notebook for later.

Weaving in and out of the aisles his eyes rested on a featured book by Kazuo Ishiguro entitled, _Never Let Me Go_. Ball vaguely remembered it, even though it had been turned into a movie not all that long ago. But as he flipped to the summary a thought entered his mind; _Tommy finds his completion in death_.

_Hmm_, Ball thought as he wondered how that could possibly correlate with _True Blood_.

Roving down another aisle Ball discovered a collection of James Bond movies; _Quantum of Solace _and _Casino Royale _stood out.

"All Daniel Craig was good for was blowing stuff up?" Ball mused, which inherently shifted his mind to the Moon Goddess in _True Blood_.

_If the vamps wanted to rid themselves of Antonia/Marnie, what would they do? What the hell would bored Sookie do because there would obviously be no nookie for Cookie without a stunt double?_

"She would interfere," Ball said almost reverently as the story began to knit itself together.

_Those who interfere will vanish into thin air, _echoed into his mind_. _So Sookie would vanish, which inherently wasn't a bad thing considering her lack of a sultry persuasion.

Ball turned to leave, but an episode of SpongeBob, that was playing in the background, caught his eye.

SpongeBob was speaking to Squidward and saying, _"You must never question the wisdom of the Magic Conch. The club always takes it's advice before we do anything."_ Ball stood there and watched a bit more, mystified over the magical wonders of the conch, before he flipped his phone open to call his assistant.

"Yeah, get me a Magic Conch Shell, and not just any one; _The _Magic Conch Shell." He closed his phone and continued on his way back to his car.

He drove home in silence, pondering the mystical forces that swayed his creative juices. He parked his car in the garage and relinquished himself of his disguise. Tepidly he wandered into his home seeking refreshment from his mentally straining ordeal.

Plopping himself down on the sofa, he surfed through the channels. _The X-Men _were playing on TBS and Ball thought to himself, _wouldn't it be uncanny if the X-Men had to save our dear Rogue again_.

"Damnit!" he cursed as he thought back to his predicament with Cookie. Because he was unsuccessful in his quest to find a stunt-double, wardrobe had not bothered to shop for her clothing. Taping began in two days, what was he to do?

A brilliant idea flashed into his mind; a very cost effective idea. "Lisa, Arlene's daughter doesn't even have screen time this week. Sookie can wear Lisa's clothes since they are roughly the same size."

Ball flipped open his notebook and reread his findings for the day. His horoscope warned him of battles with different weapons and that could only refer to the Festival of Tolerance. A smile bloomed upon his face when he thought about the possible weapons.

"Only Nan could get away with a pencil," he thought evilly.

_The Light must be from Sookie_, he mused; _Sookie's Light must save them all_.

_A battle that cannot be fought lies within the heart_, Ball reread from his notes. It was Cookie's heart that was in question and because of sanitary reasons and lack of extras that idea needed to be delegated to another episode.

"I know, Lisa has one of those heart sweaters that Sookie could wear. Problem solved," Ball stating, dismissing the true meaning of the fortune and deciding to brush it all under the rug, by the use of an immature, very teenage looking sweater.

Ball reviewed his notes moving the words and phrases around until they made even a semblance of sense; Terry, cock, Magic Tree House, and weapons still plagued him.

"There ain't no Roosters in _True Blood_, not unless Sam turned into one." He briefly thought of that idea as he swirled the words around inside his head, but ultimately decided against it.

_Terry and Andy cockfight, shooting it up at the Magic Tree House where all problems are solved_. _Perfect_, Ball thought.

_Men without souls do not cry_, Ball read from his fortune.

"Ah, shit. I guess that means that there will be some weeping willows among the men."

Ball turned back to the tube and began flipping through the channels. _Turner Movie Classics _had on one of his favorite movies; _The Princess Bride_. He tuned in and it was almost at the end, but at his favorite part.

"Hello, my name is Inigo Montoya; you killed my father, prepare to die," Ball repeated along with the actor.

Ball loved the conviction that Inigo had and the vengeful spirit that shadowed his entire life.

A thought occurred to Ball and he whispered, "Hello, my name is Sam Merlotte; you killed my brother, prepare to die."

Ball was mighty proud of himself because he creatively brainstormed without the help of Drew Carey or LSD.

**A/N- I just wanted to mention that I do realize that these shows are taped way in advance, but for the purpose of these segments, let's pretend that they tape during the week and air on Sunday.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own and I do not wish to offend the following: Mary Pope Osborne, Tiki torches, pencil makers, Drew Carey, SpongeBob, The Magic Conch, Nabisco, Chinese people, fortune cookies, James Bond, or cocks in any way. Oh yeah, I don't own any part of the fuckery that is called **_**True Blood**_**.**

**Thanks to LadyHlin for checking this out for me ahead of time. **

**If you have any ideas for methods for Ball to obtain random storylines than feel free to pass them along. Thank you for reading this installment, and until next time….**

**Please press the little green button and show me some love and support. **


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